Waterlogged
by the-bird-howl
Summary: Rain stops the Company from passing directly through Mirkwood, and they are forced to make camp for the night. While the rain keeps them trapped beneath their tarps, the forest begins to play games with them. BAGGINSHIELD / originally posted on AO3
1. Chapter 1

Hey, so I originally posted this on AO3 and thought I'd add it here too. Enjoy!

* * *

Gandalf had left the company to attend to urgent "business". Though, what was more important than the Dwarrows reclaiming Erebor, Bilbo wasn't sure.

Thorin had given up on the wizard returning as they entered the Forest of Mirkwood, cursing Gandalf's name whenever Bilbo broached the subject of meeting with him at the Overlook. Bilbo would tut at Thorin's manners. Thorin would ignore him and continue on in Khuzdul (the maledictions against their wizard sounding even more derogatory in the Dwarven-King's mother tongue). The hobbit would just laugh: a hearty, belly-clenching guffaw that left Thorin staring after him, wondering what he'd done to make his burglar produce such an endearing sound.

Bilbo had a good laugh: his head thrown back in gayety, looking up into the sky as his tenor resounded throughout the planes around them. His voice hugged Thorin, blanketed him, soft and light-hearted amongst the otherwise monotonous landscape that surrounded the Company on their long journey. When the sun was out, as it often had been in those long summer months, Bilbo's hair would glow golden in the light of dusk — reminding Thorin of the hoard lying ahead in the treasury of his Lonely Mountain. _But was his Hobbit not gold enough?_

Truthfully, to the Dwarven King — though he would never admit to it — Bilbo Baggins was worth more than all of the Dragon's Hoard, more than that of the Arkenstone and all of Thror's treasures combined.

May the Mahal have mercy on his soul. _The halfling?_

The memories of those golden sunsets still tortured him, the Hobbit's radiance burned onto the insides of his eyelids, and whenever Thorin closed them he was greeted again by the appallingly brilliant and cherubic smile of goddamn Bilbo Baggins. Thorin hated him for it. He hated that Bilbo was causing him to stray from his path, his destiny. It was his office as the heir of Durin to reclaim Erebor from the beast who'd stolen it from his grandfather. But within a fortnight, one little Hobbit had crawled out of his hole in the ground and ruined everything. Thorin couldn't focus. He couldn't concentrate on anything other than the halfling's presence around him: as he conversed with the other members of the Company, when he ate (and ate, and ate, and ate), when he _slept._

Sleeping was the worst. When they'd been traveling during the heat of Afterlithe the Company spread out comfortably at night, each hobbit, dwarf, or wizard with his own suitable amount of personal space; not having to worry about body heat or hiding beneath a tarp to avoid rain.

But now the storms of Wedmath were upon them, pounding down in droves through the trees of the haunted Mirkwood. Thorin had never remembered the rain of midyear to be so torrential, living inside the the squalid mountains of Ered Luin distracting him from the weather. Bilbo had said the same: that Wedmath had always been wet in the Shire, but this was an entirely new barrel of nuts.

"Terrible weather, this," Bilbo said, getting struck with large droplets and hoping the waistcoat in his pack wasn't being ruined. "Terrible, terrible!"

Thorin was leading the party, with Bilbo at his side on the small path, eyes on the trail and hoping not to lose their way as Gandalf had warned (not that Thorin wasn't still angry with Gandalf for abandoning the Company, but his advisory against straying from the path seemed reasonable).

"Aye, Master Burglar," he agreed, raising his voice over the sound of the storm. He looked up through the trees, trying to find the sun but only got an eyeful of water for his troubles. Hair was clinging to Thorin's face, water rolling down his back and sopping his clothes, making his furs heavy. He didn't know the hour, but they'd been hiking for most of the day and it seemed that there wasn't a dry inch of skin left on his body. He cleared his throat to get the attention of his dwarrows, "Next clearing we stop, set up the tarps for shelter."

Behind him, Bilbo could hear Fili and Kili let out large, relieved sighs, glad to be escaping the rain. He chuckled, looking over his shoulder at the brothers and giving them a reassuring grin, the prospect of a meal already brightening his mood considerably.

The trek to find a suitable clearing didn't last too much longer, and the Company unanimously seemed pleased with the location they'd found: not overwhelmingly covered in spiderwebs or dripping with unknown slimes. The dwarrows started shrugging off the gear Beorn had given them, shucking off bags in a haste to find their tarps, but being a bit more gentle with the weapons they all carried — placing them respectfully atop their rucksacks, away from the damp floor.

Rain tarps started going up, the Brothers Ri the first to finish tying off their makeshift shelter. Kili and Fili tried to escape the storm by hiding beneath Ori and Nori and Dori's tarp, but were quickly shooed away by Nori waving around his fleshing knife, threatening the youngest dwarflings until they ran away.

The tents seemed to be separated by blood, an easy enough system for Bilbo to follow: Ori, Nori and Dori under one, Oin and Gloin sharing another. Balin and Dwalin seemed to be finishing up their tarp beneath two large trees to give them maximum coverage from the rain (the Sons of Fundin always planning strategically, Bilbo noted). Beside Balin and Dwalin, the princes were efficiently getting their shelter up, too. Bilbo suspected their charade beneath the Ri's tarp was just to get a few laughs. Bombur, Bifur and Bofur were already finished and laying out supper. The Hobbit smiled and his stomach rumbled.

At a rustling behind him, Bilbo looked over his shoulder to see Thorin setting up his tarp alone. He seemed to be faring well, if a bit slowly: only two of his corners had been secured so far in the trees behind him, the remaining edges flying free in the stormy wind. Bilbo approached, picking up two rather large stones as he passed.

Taking up the closest twine not yet tied to a tree, Bilbo carefully wrapped it around one of the rocks and placed it on the ground as a weight, careful to give it no slack. Thorin did the same on the last remaining corner, the tarp now spilling runoff down its back and away from the mostly dry ground beneath.

"A handsome shelter, indeed," Bilbo smiled, stepping backwards to admire their handiwork. He wiped his hands against each other to clean them of dirt, but they were wet and muddy from the rain.

Had Gandalf been here, Bilbo suspected they would have shared cover, but now found himself quite without shelter or bedfellow. He didn't even have his own tarp, he realized (and Gandalf must have taken his own with him). It wasn't something he'd ever have thought to pack, and leaving the Shire such as he did, he'd seemed to have overlooked much of the important adventuring paraphernalia (Bilbo was still cross at himself for having forgotten his handkerchief).

"Thank you Master Baggins, much obliged," Thorin nodded, moving from the opposite side of the makeshift tent to stand closer to Bilbo. Runoff from the tarp poured over his boots and rain hit his head. The Dwarrows didn't seem to like rain. None of them did— they'd all rushed beneath their tarps as quickly as possible, running away like drowned cats. At least, _Thorin_ looked like a drowned cat. His usually uniform dark ringlets now a mop of wet on his head that stuck to his face in funny places, at his nose and forehead. How Bilbo wanted to reach up and move those strands away, put his hand through Thorin's wet mane. Pull him down and tug teasingly on the braids that rested beside the dwarf's red and wind-burnt cheeks. Thorin started, "Bilbo—"

"Oh, Mister _Boggins_!" Kili shouted from beneath his tarp. The Hobbit froze, grinding his teeth at the moniker, though it did not bother him as much as it could. His lips pulled into a tight grin when he saw Thorin repressing a smile.

"Yes, Master Dwarf?" he answered sarcastically, looking behind him to see the princes both in a crouch deep beneath their shelter, effectively veiling themselves from the rain. They were bent over a pathetically wet looking fire-ring, with Balin standing over them.

"Would you mind very much, helping us with the fire?" Fili asked, sticking out his bottom lip like a pleading puppy, "We can't get a light."

Bilbo made a face but walked over to the lads anyway, blocking his eyes from the slowing shower by pulling the neck of his jacket over his head. The dwarflings had picked up the driest kindling they could find for the small fire, but nothing was good enough. "That would be because of all the wet wood. Nothing will catch." He coughed a little when he got a puff of the thick white smoke in his lungs.

Kili looked apologetic, "Sorry," he said when Bilbo stopped coughing, and then looked back down to the barley burning tinder. Fili stomped out the failing blaze. With this wet weather there was nothing to be done, there would be no fire tonight.

The Company ate supper beneath their tarps. Dehydrated meats (cold) and foraged berries that Bombur had found along the path (unripe) which he assured them were non-poisonous. The dwarrows were cold and uneasy about being in the Mirkwood overnight, but it would have been impossible for them to make it through to the other side in the rain. The Company needed their rest. Thorin needed rest.

"Burglar," the Dwarven King said, pulling the Hobbit aside as he was passing out water rations, "I had intended to tell you that if you had not made other arrangements, you are welcome to share my shelter for the night."

The halfling flushed, though it could have been from the chill of the rain, "Thank you," he said, smiling sheepishly, and finally remembering his hobbitish manners, "how kind!"

Bilbo opened his mouth like he was preparing to say something else, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, but said nothing. Instead he smiled again, handing Thorin his share of water, then quickly ran beneath the Ri's tarp to escape the rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Like every night, there was happy conversation — as was the way with good company. The dwarves shouted to one another from beneath the cover of their tarps, none wanting to chance the rain when they could just as easily converse by yelling across the campsite. They were merry (as always) but a weight lay upon them (whether it was the unholy soul of Mirkwood or the oppressive rain, Bilbo was not sure), pushing the dwarrows into submission, and forcing them quiet after an hour of stilted conversation held in the dark.

Bilbo ate with the Ri's, his back pressed against a wet tree and his head tipped to rest on the bark. His clothes were soaked through and his skin was clammy, but he had only a few changes of dry clothes left and didn't want to risk the chance of donning them, only to have them drenched in an hour's time.

Nori felt ill and so Bilbo receded from their tent, allowing Ori and Dori to care for their brother as he slept. Thorin's tarp was across the campsite, and Bilbo sped to it in order to break free of the storm. There wasn't much for Bilbo to do besides wait for sleep to take him, but the grim tenor of the forest kept the hobbit from lying down to attempt rest. His bedroll was dry, thank Eru, but his clothes were making it rather hard to relax. He changed into dry a shirt and trousers, allowing himself the small respite as he let the haunting sounds of the forest lull him into serenity. But Bilbo never closed his eyes, for fear of what he should find there.

.

Thorin watched Bilbo run back to their tarp, his foot stomping in a small puddle and splashing itself with mud. The Dwarven King had spent supper with Balin and Dwalin, the Sons of Fundin helping him to reroute their journey through Mirkwood. If the Company was forced to spend much more time in the forest, not only would they run out of rations, but they would be making themselves easy prey for the creatures of the Wood. Thorin was confident that the things residing here would give his dwarrows no grief, but if the time came, they could be easily dispatched.

At the end of their meeting, Thorin assigned Gloin to first watch, Bifur volunteering to keep him company. Thorin nodded in assent and made way to his own shelter, beneath which Bilbo had laid his pack and was sitting in the junction of the lean-to. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, shoulders at his ears in order to fit in the corner. The halfling's eyes were lazy, mesmerized by the repetitive babel of rain against the trees.

"This forest is sick," he said by way of greeting, not looking away from the Wood, and dragging Thorin's gaze to his lips in order to hear the hobbit's words over the din of the storm, "I can feel it in my bones."

"So it is," Thorin said, rolling out his mat and taking a seat beside Bilbo in the dark. "But nothing we can't handle."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Bilbo frowned, his brows knitting together, still not meeting Thorin's gaze, "Even now I feel uneasy, like we're being watched. Like anything could just jump out of the trees and eat us."

"Do you lack confidence in the Company, Master Hobbit?" Thorin teased, shrugging out of his fur overcoat, now heavy with rain water.

"Not at all," Bilbo finally smiled, moving his knees away from his chest to sit cross-legged. A big hobbity foot rested beside Thorin's boot, hairy toes wiggling as Bilbo stretched his muscles. Through a yawn, he said, "But I worry none the less, can't seem to do much else these days."

"All you need worrying about, Master Burglar, are your thieving skills." Thorin consoled, a sudden crack of thunder startling both himself and the halfling, who jumped in alarm.

Bilbo sighed, moving away from Thorin and leaning down into his bedroll, "Sleep, now, I think."

"Aye," Thorin muttered in response, doubting that he'd been heard above the rain. He leaned down to remove his boots and spread out parallel to the hobbit, back turned away from the open side of the lean-to, rain droplets occasionally hitting his spine and splashing at his neck. Thorin was used to sleeping near others, the life of a soldier sometimes calling for a tight encampment, but this was different. Being in such close quarters with Bilbo was terrifying. Thorin could see the rise and fall of his chest, share in his body heat. They didn't touch, but Thorin marveled at the way their bodies would have matched up, Bilbo's strong legs and hairy feet tangling in his own.

Rain hit the tarp, sheets of it: ominous and daring, forcing Thorin to think of what creatures might be able to reside in such horrible conditions. This forest was sick, the halfling had been right about that. An ailment lay upon the trees, strangling them, drowning them in rainfall. And upon the Company too. Thorin feared for his kinsmen and for his hobbit, not knowing what madness they might succomb to in this terrible waste of dying countryside.

Before his mind had been infected with gold lust, Thror had told his grandchildren the wonders of the Forest of Greenwood. Things he'd never even seen himself, but had been told by his grandfather, and his grandfather before him. The shadow of Sauron fell heavy upon the Wood now, shrouding it in a great many evils. Evils that were legend now just as much as the beauty of the Wood had once been.

The Mirkwood played with its victims: dizzying their sight and blurring their path. Leading them into death's patient hands by way of visions and apparitions real as any flesh creature. Living out your most well-guarded fantasies and desires, only to have them ripped away in the most horrific fashions.

"Good night," Bilbo yawned, burrowing into his blankets to find warmth, to find comfort. Thorin's heart clenched.

His eyelids were heavy with sleep. If he were much more pathetic than he already was, Thorin would have let himself be convinced that he was laid down beside a lover as Bilbo wished him sweet dreams, allow the Wood to play tricks on him. "Good night," he murmured, barely able to hear himself in the night.

The burglar haunted Thorin's dreams. Stole them.

He was but a wisp of reality, hardly anything to hold on to, and yet he made Thorin's blood burn. His dreams were hardly peaceful: they were carnal and uninhibited, insatiable. But sometimes they were slow and beautiful, so full of love and intimate desire that Thorin might falter upon waking, plead to Mahal that he stay dreaming in order to remain in the Hobbit's arms.

This night, the din of the storm echoed in Thorin's ears as the halfling lay beside him. They were affectionate at first, with caring touches and slight, flirting caresses. A small, knowing smile on Bilbo's lips sent a hot shiver down Thorin's body. While his halfling was always very much full of vitality in these dreams, he was also wretchedly hollow, only a shallow replica of the real thing. Thorin would wake and know in his soul that it was unreal, so heartbreakingly unreal that when he looked into Bilbo's eyes, he only felt disgust for himself, shame for having acted so sinfully in his dreams.

But this felt too utterly real. Every inch of Bilbo's skin sent a burning rush to the dwarf's bones, his body flushing as they undressed each other beneath the tarp. It was sweet and caring, as two lovers would be. Familiar with each other's bodies, knowing where to kiss and bite, where to rub and touch. It was hot, it was passionate, it was dragon-fire.

But it was a dream, too utterly perfect and beautiful to ever be allowed in reality, so Thorin let himself indulge. Let himself be devoured entirely by his lust, consumed by his love until he was nothing more than a writhing mess, a corporeal being tied only to Middle-Earth by his love for this halfling. And he let himself admit what he never had before. It was a chant, a mantra, over and over and over again falling from his tongue, _I love you, I love you, I love you._


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin could hear birds chirping.

His body was stiff from sleep and a stone had found its way under his ribs. But in the trees, he could hear the innocent sounds of fauna calling to each other. _The storm must have passed_ , he thought, unable to hear the steady roll of rain droplets against the tarp above him. His face was cold in the morning chill: the canopy of trees blocking camp from getting any warm sunlight, and the compact shearling blankets not nearly as warm as he wished them to be.

Thorin knew he should probably get up, the Company needed to get back on the trail and it was already far past dawn. But he was tired and cold, and Bilbo's small body was so warm next to him. The dwarf burrowed further into his blanket, readjusting his body and trying to free the bothersome pebble. He relaxed into his bedroll again, curling back into the still-sleeping Hobbit flushed against his chest. The halfling's body was burning up beside him, his skin hot to the touch where they brushed against each other. Bilbo's warmth was comfortable, inviting, and Thorin ached to stay tucked around him this way: calves brushing against Bilbo's hairy toes, an arm draped over his plump stomach.

 _Mahal_ , he loved everything about this hobbit. From his funny pointed ears, to the pudgy stomach (though it was getting smaller everyday, which was not something Thorin was sure he was happy about; a Hobbit's hedonistic disposition called for indulgence, and Bilbo hadn't been able to indulge in anything for a rather long time). He wanted to shower Bilbo with gifts, clothe him in the finest of textiles, cover him in jewels. If he were able, he would give his halfling only the best Erebor had to offer. But he was a King with no kingdom, and so could give the hobbit nothing but the tired clothes on his back.

Thorin's body was lethargic, felt sated. _Spent_. The way he would only after a night of satisfied lovemaking. He wanted to press kisses into the halfling's shoulder, once more explore the alabaster chest until Bilbo woke breathless beneath his attentions.

And he almost did it. The imprint of the hobbit's skin still stung on his fingertips, the false memory of Bilbo's taste still on his tongue. It almost felt real. It almost tricked him. Thorin froze.

Bilbo stirred in his sleep, turning away from the dwarf's back to mirror him instead, face pillowed beside Thorin's own. He could see Bilbo's features now, the tired lines on his burglar's face disappeared in sleep. He looked at peace, comfortable in the pile of blankets that covered them both. _Had he looked that way as he was pressed beside me? Curled up like a lover?_

Or was his burglar simply an apparition?

 _His burglar._ It was no longer just a title on Thorin's tongue, it was an endearment. And no matter how much Bilbo had argued that he was no thief when they first met, surely he had stolen some part of Thorin's sanity. Or perhaps at this moment, it was the forest who had stolen it.

Thorin knew he would not be able to escape the Mirkwood unscathed, its influence was too strong, its tricks too alluring. Like a heady mead, it intoxicated his mind. The Dwarven King had never wasted so much time thinking about the Hobbit. Even at Beorn's Hall, where the Company had kept close quarters for an entire fortnight, Thorin was able to keep perspective and focus on other (more important) things.

But since taking one step into the forest, every thought, every reverie, every free _second_ had been spent on Bilbo. Spent on a hobbit who would never love him back.

It was heartbreaking to admit so plainly, but it was the truth. The hobbit loved him not.

Any alternative was just the world playing tricks on him.

He tried to pull away, wincing when Bilbo moved again in his sleep. He didn't want the halfling to wake and find Thorin wrapped around him (there weren't any good excuses he could come up with. You looked cold? It was to protect you from contracting hypothermia?). Slowly, he removed his leg from between Bilbo's, the large and hairy feet stirring. The hobbit was waking and there wasn't much time left for Thorin to make his escape unseen.

The dwarf rose from the bedrolls and shoved his feet into his boots, a terrible wave of vertigo hitting him when he stood too quickly. The shape of Bilbo's body doubled and tilted below him, and Thorin had to rest against a tree in order to find equilibrium again. He sighed and rubbed a hand through his beard, the rough hairs scratching at his cheeks. He felt like a blackguard standing there, as he watched Bilbo's sleepy breathing in the morning air. Such an act was incredibly intimate for dwarves, earning the right to watch over another's sleep a hugely personal commodity. Thorin felt like he was pilfering something, inserting himself into Bilbo's rapport without him knowing.

It felt like the Wood was teasing him. Dangling his heart just out of reach.

Bilbo woke slowly, eyes opening and right hand consciously searching for his bedfellow's warmth on the mat. He looked disoriented for a moment, confused (hurt, maybe? No, Thorin could not believe that) when he found that he was lying alone. Thorin said nothing, but moved against the bark behind him, making his presence known to the hobbit lying on the ground and feeling caught out when Bilbo looked at him. The burglar peered up and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, still tired. Bilbo stretched his limbs under the blankets, "Good morning," he hummed lazily.

The halfling was too picturesque lying there, looking up at Thorin like he'd hung the moon, doe eyes far too imploring. His eyes searched Thorin's body, traveling from head to toe, and back up again where he met the dwarf's bemused stare. Bilbo's fingers twitched like he was going to reach for him. Thorin must have imaged that. He also must have imagined the heated flicker in the halfling's eye, almost a hunger. _Yes_ , he decided, _definitely imagined_. Perhaps the halfling was just peckish?

"Indeed," he coughed awkwardly, meeting the hobbit's eyes after a beat, "it is a good morning."

A smile graced Bilbo's lips, entertained by Thorin's dawdling. The dwarf's brow set: he did not like being laughed at. "Breakfast will be arranged soon," he managed, "pray should you not miss it. The rain has stopped, the Company will take leave soon."

He did not wait for the hobbit's quiet, "Aye," before turning on his heals and legging it for main camp.

Something in Bilbo deflated as Thorin walked away, his smile fell.

He reached out to touch the imprint of where Thorin had been sleeping, its empty presence grounding him in reality. Bilbo had woken at dawn to find the dwarf wrapped around him, arms protectively about his waist, a leg pressed between his own. Their body heat mingled, and with each breath Thorin took Bilbo could feel the exhale against his neck, the strong pulse of Thorin's heart at his back.

They had redressed each other slowly the night before, not wanting to stop touching for a moment. And Bilbo thought it could have lasted.

But when he'd woken again and Thorin wasn't beside him, Bilbo feared that the dwarf's sweet nothings in his ear had all been farce. He felt used, to be quite honest. He felt dirty. He wanted to drown himself in the blankets. He wanted to stop breathing.

Thorin's quick escape was evidence enough: he was already regretting it.

.

Across the way of the clearing, Balin sat conversing amiably with Ori, the two having struck up an easy friendship along the road. You could see in Ori's eyes the admiration he held for Thorin's old advisor. They spoke of ancient texts and tomes, things Balin remembered from the libraries of Erebor and things that Ori could only ever dream of seeing. Bilbo sat at Balin's side, barely pecking at the grains in front of him and looking imploringly upon the ground to avoid Thorin's gaze, as if he were pleading for the earth to swallow him up.

Thorin tried not to stare, he did. But as he sat by himself in the feeble light of the forest, he couldn't help but flick his eyes back to the Hobbit's moping form. _Was Bilbo angry with him? Was he upset they'd slept so close during the night? Had he woken to find the overbearing old Dwarven King latched onto him like a leech?_

Bilbo hadn't said anything about it, but he was always polite in that way. He wouldn't say a word against Thorin unless he'd been truly offended. But perhaps he was — perhaps Thorin had unknowingly offended Bilbo's hobbitish sensibilities beyond all repair. They still hadn't shared words since coming to breakfast and the Company was beginning to disassemble camp to continue their journey.

Ori twittered away with Balin, his high, lilting voice a constant hum in Thorin's ears as he watched Bilbo sigh and begin to clear away his (mostly untouched) breakfast. Balin glanced at Bilbo next to him, looking him over with a concerned eye. He wasn't hurt, just looked tired and despondent in the wet forest, once again longing for Bag End: for his books, and his garden, and his armchair.

Balin looked away. Across the campsite he met Thorin's gaze, probably intending to ask if he knew the cause for their burglar's sulk. But there in Thorin's eyes, he found his answer.

Balin knew.

As did Dwalin. The Sons of Fundin were perceptive in that way.

"You must speak with him," Dwalin said as the Company trudged along the swampy path. They were hiking again, making their way slowly through the Mirkwood (the path much harder to follow than originally anticipated). Dwalin walked through the forest with Thorin at his side, their boots covered in mud. "I fear he will call back the rain with all his moping about."

"I know not what you speak of." Thorin tried to look detached from the conversation, but probably gave himself away when he looked over his shoulder at the halfling. Bilbo was at the tail of the pack, his face stony as Bofur chattered easily beside him, probably in the middle of one of his fantastical tales of their time traveling from Ered Luin to Hobbiton.

"You know right well what I speak on," Dwalin huffed when Thorin looked at him again, "Your hobbit is in a sulk. Dwarrows as far as the Iron Hills can feel his despondency."

"He is not _my_ hobbit, he is the Company's hobbit. No— I mean, he is one of the Company, not one of my—"

"Do not strain yourself, Majesty." Dwalin looked far too smug as he teased his old friend, "You'll give yourself a nosebleed."

Thorin's face went red, and he sneered without a hint of amusement, "My distaste for you grows everyday."

"Finally, we agree on something," Dwalin quipped right back.

Thorin let himself grin, the tug of his lips finally feeling genuine. He looked back over his shoulder and felt his heart sink. The hobbit was not smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

_Yes_ , Bilbo had finally decided, _Bofur's endless chattering would be the death of him._

That's not to say he didn't love Bofur's company, but the dwarf had been glued to his side all morning and evening. Bilbo supposed the toymaker must have seen the change in his disposition, because as they hiked, Bofur had been unusually peppy and far more loquacious than usual (which was really saying something).

And Bofur was a dear, he truly, truly was. But right now, Bilbo desperately needed a moment alone; away from loud-mouthed dwarrows that would blab to the entire Company. If Bilbo had ever once believed that Shire lasses were terrible gossips, it was because he'd never met a dwarf: rumor travelled through the Company like flash fire, and most likely being completely incorrect or blown out of proportion by the time it finally circled back to him.

If he'd thought Bofur could keep his trap shut without hearsay spreading to the others (most of all to Kili and Fili, who were the biggest gossipmongers Bilbo had ever met) he didn't think he'd ever stop talking. There was such a weight on his shoulders, laden heavy with doubt and self-pity that he just wanted to crawl under a rock in order to escape it. If it slid away, Bilbo thought, surely the weight would cause an avalanche and by the time his outpour would stop, Bofur would want nothing to do with him. He'd be scared away by Bilbo's passion for the king.

There was so much to be said. He admired Thorin as a leader, and as a friend, and now as a lover. He loved Thorin's stoic majesty, how even in the simple tunic Beorn had provided him with, he still looked every part the King Under the Mountain. His striking figure, though entirely unknown to halflings of the Shire, as alluring to Bilbo in a way he'd never known before. Where on Hobbit lads and lasses (and even Bilbo himself), there was an attractive amount of fat (a sign of a well fed individual, if Bilbo had anything to say about it), Thorin was all muscle. It was proof of his arduous lifestyle, passionate in every way. Bilbo respected him so much that it physically hurt. And he thought even Bofur, a strong romantic and supporter of any amorous endeavor, would find his enamoring pathetic.

It wasn't as if Bilbo was sequestering himself in a corner crying _woe-is-me_ , he was far stronger than that, he was no wilting flower. But he couldn't get out of his own head. He was trapped in post-coital purgatory, forever replaying Thorin's words in his mind.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._

In the moment, Bilbo had been too stunned to say anything. He'd been kissing at Thorin's neck, marking him as they rutted against each other. Bilbo had barely been able to make a sound, pleasure caught in his throat, and only the occasional strangled whimper managing to escape. Thorin was heavy over him, Bilbo's blunt nails making barely-there crescent marks in his dwarf's back as they held close to each other.

Bilbo had reached down, grasping at Thorin's arse for purchase as he moved faster, gaining momentum, climbing higher. Thorin moaned. It was ungodly, really, the way he sounded. His golden voice throaty and breathless, and his breathing hitched as he turned into Bilbo's neck. He tried to kiss at the halfling's throat but could barely manage anything besides sighing heady into his skin, tasting Bilbo on his tongue.

The halfling bucked again, and again, Thorin's moans far too loud.

 _"Shh,"_ Bilbo had tried to say, _"they're sleeping."_ But the storm above them drowned out his voice, Thorin's wet breathing against his neck and at his ear, biting, intoxicating.

" _Bilbo_ ," he'd said, _"Bilbo, ghivashel, my love."_ He was close now, Bilbo could feel him begin to stir, his moan vibrating in Bilbo's ribs. _"I love you,_ " he'd sighed, _"I love you, I love you."_

That released him, and Bilbo spilled into the trousers he had changed only hours before. Thorin following quickly behind, into his own hand, and still dressed in the breeches they'd been too desperate to shuck off.

Bilbo caught his breath, pressing light, affectionate kisses onto his dwarf's cheek, nuzzling into the dark beard that grazed his face. Thorin's eyes were euphoric, calm, but distant too. Sad, even.

Bilbo caught his mouth then, wanting to rid Thorin of that terrible look, like he was doubting Bilbo's love.

 _"Ghivashel,"_ Thorin sighed against his lips and smiled, curling into the halfling, pulling him flush against his chest under the blankets.

 _All will be well,_ Bilbo had though, _all will be perfect._

.

By the time the Company had stopped to pitch camp, Bilbo had gotten rocks stuck between his toes and the leathery soles of his feet were caked in dirt. The rain had slicked every rock and made the mud into paste, moss slippery and hard for him to keep traction without his own pair of heavy dwarven boots. His feet felt heavier with each step, his lungs straining to take in air.

He praised Eru, even praised Aulë, not even his own god but when the holy name fell off his tongue it was natural. It was divine. Sitting down was _religious_. And food was a miracle.

Supper was hot for once; the lads had rejoiced when they were able to light their fire. Bilbo ate his fill, but no more than his allotted amount, and far less than any Hobbit should have been used to.

He couldn't say that he did not miss his seven meals, but what they had was hardy and filling. The dwarrows fed him well enough, and he had no right to complain. And Dori still had a few chamomile leaves; they had shared their tea by the fire, grateful for the way it warmed their chests, even if there was no cream or sugar.

The air was getting humid, even as the sun set, and the dwarrows were worried it would start to storm again. For more than ten minutes they'd been circling the idea of putting the tarps back up, just in case.

"Wouldn't wan'ta get trapped out in the rain," Bofur had reasoned, getting up from the log they shared to help his kin with their tarp. He tapped the few remaining scraps in his bowl onto the dirt, kicked mud over the crumbs, licked the wood bowl clean, and then made his way over to Bifur and Bombur.

When Bilbo looked up into the canopy of leaves and branches, he couldn't see the beautifully auburn and azure sky he'd hoped was there, or even the stormy sky that probably was. Instead it was the tangling limbs of the trees, grey and dying. Thick shadows hung across the campsite, the last flares of sunlight being snuffed out by macabre leaves.

.

Night had fallen completely over the Mirkwood. The only light now came from the fire, that with every passing minute was being drowned by the quickly coming rain. A cloud of white smoke had started fuming from the wet timber, choking those who sat too close in a shroud of thick fog. The burning wood smelled of sulfur and decay: a condition of the forest which infected all that grew within its borders.

Bilbo, whose lungs were neither terribly strong nor accustomed to sitting fireside, had to leave the pit for fear of gagging to death in the acrid air. Farther away from the clearing which the Company had made their unofficial centre of camp, he found that his breathing came no easier. The air in all of the forest was thick and humid, regardless of hour or temperature. It clung to the insides of his lungs, lacing its way through his body and tightening his chest to the point of discomfort.

His breast rose and fell heavily as he took in large breaths through his nose. The blood pumping through Bilbo's heart burned, not enough air passing through his lungs as he heaved in the middle of the clearing. There was nothing beside him to gather purchase upon, and he had to stumble towards a jagged tree trunk before unceremoniously dropping his entire body weight against it, clinging to the bark for support as his hands shook and he hyperventilated.

He couldn't be panicking. He knew not why he would be, there were no problems to speak of. Everything was fine. Peachy keen.

The only thing which possibly could have been making his body betray him so was the Mirkwood, tangling itself between his arteries and in every crevice between his bones. He had been warned of this. He'd passed by hundreds of bad omens on the trail but had said nothing.

And now here he was, body collapsing, face pressed into the mud. He was so tired. _So tired._ He just wanted to sleep. He relented and let his eyes fall shut. Each breath was a struggle, his body feeble and weak. It was much easier to not breath at all, the stillness of his chest allowing for a small repose. But his heart continued to beat heavily no matter how much he willed it to stop, and the drumming of the rain upon his face only increased with every passing minute.

 _Yes_ , he decided, _I will sleep. If only for a moment, I will sleep._ It mattered not that he was covered in black soil or that the rain was coming down in droves over him. Bilbo could not feel the wet or the cold, only the caress of sleep that was so inviting now — so promising, and so forgiving.

" _Bilbo_?" the sound of his name being called barely broke over the roar of the storm, the droplets hitting against leaves above. " _Bilbo_!" This time it was closer, and the voice sent a shock of pain through his head. _"No, no please Bilbo, no. Come on."_

The ground shifted beneath him, mud oozing away from the imprint of the heavy boots and knees that dropped down beside his limp form. Large arms jostled Bilbo's legs and head, turning his body over and making to pick him up. He whined pathetically and tried to curl into himself. No, he pleaded as the hands lifted him up and out of the mud. _No, I just want to sleep. Please._

His head lolled back, unsupported by the strong arms that carried him. He knew not in which direction they were headed, but tried to coil into his porter's chest, finding comfort in their neck as the arms shifted and Bilbo wrapped his hands around the wide shoulders.

His eyes fell open slowly, heavily. Thorin's strong chin was beside Bilbo's face, the dwarf's braids tickling at his cheek. He was far too exhausted to argue being carried like a child, and was not entirely averse to the act of being held this way. He simply closed his eyes again, and relaxed until his body was laid onto a bedroll, and a blanket was being pulled to his chest.

It smelled distinctly of Thorin, heavy with musk and the clover soap with which he washed his hair. It was comfortable here, and Bilbo had no problem finally conceding to the forest and falling asleep.

.

Bilbo had a nightmare that evening.

He was in his own bed at Bag End, snug under the covers with Thorin's arm draped about his waist. The dwarf's eyes were gentle and sweet, so blue that Bilbo just wanted to lose himself in them.

Bilbo liked to think he was a respectably sized Hobbit, average for any Baggins or Took in his family. But where his own toes almost reached the foot of the bed, Thorin's would have dangled off had he not bent his legs, entwining them with the great big Hobbity feet beside him. His dwarf was a tactile creature, Bilbo had learned, and a hand came up to touch his cheek, slightly caressing as Thorin's calloused fingers traced the lines of a smile on his face.

He shifted his head forward to catch Thorin's lips in a kiss. No sooner had their tongues begun to mingle, hands begin to wonder, did a terrible moan escape from Thorin's throat. It was wet and pained, and Bilbo pulled his lips away in time to see a scared look on the face that was always so stonily resolute and loving. Thorin's mouth was contorted in shock, bottom lip trembling as a single ruby drip of blood fell and stained the white pillow cradling his face.

His back arched unnaturally, trying to jerk away from the pain stabbing through him. Hot tears burned in Bilbo's eyes. He made to grab for Thorin, tortured howls ripping from his throat.

Thorin screamed when Bilbo tried to wipe the blood from his lips, his body yanked away from the mattress and into the darkness. An invisible entity held him afloat by the hair, limbs jerking like a rag doll. The door to their bedroom slammed open, and Thorin dropped to the floor with a thud, cracking against the old wood. He was still screaming when the invisible hands dragged him into the hall by the ankles. Bilbo cried out, trying to get to the archway before he lost sight of Thorin. The door slammed closed before he reached it, handle locking itself and trapping Bilbo inside the room.

He pulled on the knob, practically ripping the door from its hinges in attempt to get out. The door hardly budged, only loosening when Bilbo propped a leg up on the wall for leverage. It sprang open, knocking him heavily to the floor. He scrambled to find balance again, thinking of nothing but _Thorin Thorin Thorin!_

Bilbo ran into the hall, prepared to search through the rooms of Bag End in order to find his dwarf. But he was not in Bag End at all. The Mirkwood was dark and threatening, settled almost in pitch blackness if it were not for the bioluminescence of the slime covered trees. Wind blew, billowing his night shirt about him and biting at his cold cheek.

He ran and ran, trying to follow Thorin's dragged howls, but never fast enough to reach him. The Mirkwood fell silent, the darkness around him mercilessly hollow. Fathomless. He slowed to walk through the forest, trying to find his way without marching into tree, and found himself at the campsite.

Their tarps were still hanging, heavy and wet with rain water. There was no fire, and the dwarrows' packs were undisturbed, their weapons untouched. It was simply abandoned.

"Thorin!" Bilbo yelled into the void (he knew not whether it was day or night, for no light could reach here, the branches would not allow it), stepping around a tome laid casually on the ground. It was Ori's, he never went anywhere without it. Beside it, Bofur's hat, blithely laid down like it'd be picked up again any minute.

A hot droplet of rain fell onto Bilbo's cheek, traveling down until it reached his mouth. He didn't wipe it away with a hand, but rather licked his lips, tasting the terrible coppery moisture on his tongue.

A second drop splashed on his eyelid and he reached up to wipe it, hand coming away red in the darkness. But there was still light enough to know blood when he saw it. It was smeared across his fingers, and Bilbo could feel it on his face: still hot, still _alive_.

When he looked into the high trees he saw them. The Company wrapped up in spider webs, thirteen cocoons of strangling white gauze, all stained and dripping with blood.

Bilbo screamed.

"Bilbo!" Thorin yelled, his voice breaking off in a tortured yowl, "Bilbo please!" But the voice was not coming from the direction of his snared Company, it surrounded him and penetrated him and his body shook in pain. "Bilbo!"

He woke with a start, crying out into the night and almost hitting Thorin, his large chest hovering over Bilbo's as he suddenly let go of the halfling's forearms.

"Wha—" he muttered, half dazed, still able to feel the blood on his face. The dwarf's eyes were terrified, his pupil's dilated in the night; above him, the tarp shuddered beneath the rain that continued to fall. "Thorin?"

The dwarf quickly schooled his features, hiding his anxiety behind practiced indifference, "You were screaming, Master Baggins," he whispered, "Was it a nightmare?"

Bilbo nodded minutely, reliving the horror of Thorin's warm body being hauled away from him. Thorin inclined his head in understanding, eyes falling to his knees where he was knelt down. "Do wish to speak of it?"

Bilbo only bit his lip. Thorin nodded again, this time troubled by the halfling's silence. He laid down; preparing to find sleep again, if he could.

"You only call me Bilbo when you don't mean to," the hobbit's voice came in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, "I can see the surprise in your face when you say it, you can never meet my eyes afterwards."

Thorin flinched underneath his shearling. He didn't intend to, but was sure Bilbo had seen it. His burglar was perceptive in that way. He wanted to tell the hobbit all that he was feeling, that he could not meet his eyes for fear that Bilbo would find him out. That he could not speak his name because it was like a declaration on his tongue, promising forever. "It is not proper," he said instead.

"I think we're far past formality, Thorin," there was a coldness in the halfling's voice that he hadn't been expecting.

"I suppose we are," he said carefully, trying for geniality, "You've saved my life enough times that I believe I can now call you a friend. I do hope, at least."

"A friend," Bilbo sounded breathless, eyes hidden in the darkness.

"That is," Thorin repented, "if I have not offended your Hobbitish sensibilities."

Bilbo chuckled quietly, "No, a friend is wise. I need a friend." Neither said anything for a quiet moment; they just listened to the babel of the storm, to the noise of each other's labored breathing. Bilbo stirred, moving his hand from beneath his blanket to sit beside their chests.

Thorin caught it in his own, slipping their fingers together and squeezing lightly, his large digits covering Bilbo's own.

"Goodnight." Thorin whispered.

"Goodnight, friend." Bilbo replied.


	5. Chapter 5

Friends.

Bilbo could be friends with Thorin Oakenshield. Were they not friends already? Bilbo thought they could be, under the right circumstances; If Thorin had not been cold to him when they first met, if he had not embraced Bilbo on the Carrock and clasped their chests together, forcing the Hobbit to take in all of the Dwarven King's warmth and attractive sturdiness (further adding to Bilbo's ridiculous desire to kiss him). If Thorin had not slept with Bilbo and then left him. If Thorin had not made Bilbo fall in love with him.

If Thorin didn't make Bilbo's blood boil.

Bilbo wasn't angry, per se, he was supremely disappointed. He was disappointed that he'd put his faith (and love) in a dwarf who was so proud and self-reliant and socially awkward that he could not have a simple conversation about feelings with the hobbit he'd bedded. Instead, he withdrew into himself, pulling away from Bilbo and avoiding eye contact.

(Thorin's eyes revealed all, something Bilbo realized early in their association — as early as stepping into Bag End — and knew Thorin had some sort of secret he was trying to keep from the burglar. Most positively, Bilbo supposed, it was that the dwarf regretted sleeping with him; that he'd spoken hastily in admitting his love and was trying to break off their acquaintance while also outrightly avoiding speaking to the Hobbit about — as was Thorin's wont: avoiding an awkward situation until it went away.)

Yes, Bilbo supposed, he could be friends with Thorin Oakenshield, if it was the only way to protect his heart from an idiot dwarf who wouldn't know his own feelings if they'd hit him square in the face.

After all that had happened on this most unexpected journey, after all of his pining, Bilbo didn't think his heart could take another beating. He was on edge as it was, sleeping out in the open every night in this accursed forest, still under the deluge that persisted day in day out.

He tucked further into his (first and only) breakfast, hating every spoonful he shoveled in of the mealy stuff, but ate it nonetheless. He didn't know when next they would stop for food.

Thorin had still been asleep when the hobbit had woken, leaving Bilbo to eat his breakfast in peace. Small miracles, Bilbo thought, taking another bite of what barely passed as an oat porridge, small bloody miracles.

* * *

Thorin woke alone, the pillow beneath his head smelling distinctly of Bilbo. Almost sweet, like the honey soap Beorn had given him before they'd left his estate. Breathing in heavily, he remembered then that he had, in fact, slept on Bilbo's pillow.

After finding the Hobbit curled in on himself among the trees, heart beating rapidly and face pressed into the dirt, Thorin had carried him back to their tarp. The Hobbit hadn't yet unpacked his things (which quietly stung, somewhere within Thorin's heart), hadn't even moved them from where he'd dropped them by the fire ring before running into the brush like a dying squall, choking on acrid air and stumbling over himself.

Thorin chased after Bilbo, a worried line set deep between his brows when he'd lost the burglar to the thicket of dark branches. When he'd finally found him, Thorin feared that the burglar's heart had stopped, audibly panicking as he brought Bilbo back to camp and set him down on his own opened sleeping mat. Thorin went back to the campfire to collect the halflings belongings, only to return and find him asleep.

The little burglar had looked so comfortable lying beneath Thorin's blankets, he didn't dare disturb him; he rolled out Bilbo's mat instead, hating the way he pressed his face into the Hobbit's pillow and breathed in heavily as he fell asleep.

By the time Thorin laced his heavy boots and found his way to the fire ring the next morning (blessedly without a drop of rain), Bombur had finished preparing breakfast. It was a short affair, consisting of a terrible muddy thing which the cook had presented as porridge. It tasted awful, but Thorin could not hold it against him — dying fires in the Mirkwood hardly held up against the illustrious kitchens of Erebor.

The Company ate in relative silence, his sister-sons resting at the opposite side of the fire ring. Kili was sat at his brother's feet, dark hair twisted in Fili's hands as he redid the plaits which had come undone.

"Good morrow burglar," Thorin said, settling in beside Bilbo on a large rock (surface crawling with questionable moss), the Hobbit slowly nursing at a bowl of Nori's wild tea. Bilbo offered no greeting in return, only a half-formed sound as he brought the steaming tea to his lips, not meeting Thorin's eye.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked. This caught Bilbo's attention and his neck whipped up to meet Thorin's gaze, eyes bright.

"A little," he said, barely more than a whisper and as quickly as it had shown itself, the flicker left the halfling's eye. He dropped his gaze again, eyes pointing towards the bowl resting on his knee, shoulders sagging. Thorin said nothing more.

The halfling withdrew, as if Thorin's very presence sent him into a state of distress, physically leaning away as Thorin sat beside him (whether this was conscious or not, he did not know. But the tugging in his chest suggested to him that it was the former).

Bilbo was civil, tepid at best: their conversation stilted and awkward. All day he seemed to be politely avoiding Thorin, if not outrightly ignoring him any time Thorin tried to speak with him, and the Dwarven King felt as if he were losing half of himself. He and Bilbo were at an impasse, and Thorin had never felt so without encouragement (for a moment, however long ago it was, there was a flicker in the halfling's eye of faith — of inspiration — that kept Thorin hopeful in this now fierce vein).

Thorin was a proud dwarf, he knew this to be true. But he had much to be proud of: he was heir to the line of Durin, the most powerful clan of dwarrows born from the Seven Fathers.

This however (Thorin's station, that is), was a hindrance as well. At the moment, he had nothing to be proud of — he was an uncrowned heir with no claim to his homeland. And he supposed, upon reflection, this was what kept him from pursuing Bilbo. It was not the fact that his beloved was a Hobbit, or that he preferred books to daggers. It was nothing to do with Bilbo at all.

It was that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, knew he was not worthy of that Hobbit, no matter how proud a dwarf he was.

Perhaps if they met under different circumstances, perhaps in another life where Thorin hadn't lost his motherland. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

There was a terrible, sudden roll in Thorin's gut, like his stomach was tying itself in knots. It would not do to dwell on what could or could not have been. He could only live with what was.

His body was still strong, his drive to reclaim the mountain the only thing keeping him going as they trekked through the Mirkwood, but he could not tell how much longer he would last on adrenaline and stubbornness alone. The dark circles beneath his eyes became heavier everyday, and Thorin could feel them weighing him down. The rain had started pouring again, no doubt making him appear even more ragged than he felt.

Dwalin had told him so, falling into step with the king and outrightly telling him he looked like the underside of a goat's jacksie, whatever the hell that meant. "Alright?" he harrumphed, when Thorin didn't laugh.

"All right." he affirmed, though it did not sound convincing.

"Whatever you have to tell yourself to fall asleep at night." And that must have made him wince, for Dwalin looked at him then, all mirth gone from his expression.

"Something like that," his scan of the Company quickly finding the Hobbit amongst them, as if that explained enough. "I'm having dreams. Mahal has forsaken me in this place." Dwalin bowed his head in understanding (read: pity), a water droplet running down his large nose.

"That burglar will be the end of you, cousin." he said.

"Aye?"

"Aye, if you do nothing about it. I am tired of watching the two of you skirt around each other like a pair of faunts. It's annoying frankly, we've other things to attend to."

"And you think I have not noticed that?"

"I think," Dwalin said, lowering his voice, "that you need to wake up and do something about it. You love him or not?"

"Yes," he sighed, "I do."

And he did. He loved Bilbo: his manner and outspokenness being so unlike how Thorin had pictured when he'd first walked into the well-kept smial of Bag End. Bravery seemed to radiate from the halfling, so much power in such a small body that Thorin didn't know how it all fit. He was honest and he was kind, and Thorin could not look at him without wanting to turn away in shame for himself. He was so unworthy of this Hobbit, who deserved nothing less than the world and all its jewels. And if he could, Thorin would have given them, if only for a smile in return.

What he wouldn't do for that smile.

Dwalin's face softened, "He loves you too y'know." he said after a beat, chuckling, "Though I do not know why— looks at you just about as if you've hung the moon, Mahal help him."

Thorin disagreed, but didn't want to argue. Bilbo didn't love him. In time, perhaps he could. After Thorin had regained his throne and rightfully became the dwarf king he was born to be. But no, not the dwarf caked in grime and dirt, trudging blindly through the Mirkwood.

He looked down at his hands, calloused and hardened with time and labor, dirt beneath his nails. He imagined them wrapped around the burglar's petite pair. They were decorated with rings, mementoes from his past life as the Crown Prince: The Durin insignia, identical rings on the hands of his sister-sons, bearing their Right. One from his father, a simple band of silver, and another of gold, shaped in the forges of Ered Luin, proclaiming his revenge on the worm Smaug. The final was from his mother: a sapphire caged in sterling silver, intended for his beloved.

Slipping his mother's ring from his finger, Thorin traced the jewel with his thumb, turning the circlet over in his hands before slipping it into the breast pocket of his great coat.

Thorin knew Dwalin was watching him, but he said nothing about it. Dwalin said nothing in return.

In time, he hoped, in time he could be loved.

* * *

As the Company trudged on, Bilbo thought he could hear birds singing in the distance. Other than the morning two days ago when the rain had stopped and the harrowing staple of the Wood had lessened, he hadn't been able to hear anything in the trees besides the constant dribble of water droplets against leaves, and the far away cracks of thunder. Perhaps this meant that they were reaching the border of the forest — perhaps could escape this place. The call of the Wood and its terrible melody had fatigued the Company, Bilbo's own steps becoming sluggish through the mud.

Though Bilbo had recovered physically from his ordeal the previous night (now able to breathe without fear of wheezing), his thoughts were still rigidly trapped in that terrible nightmare. The taste of copper on his tongue still stung, and for a moment he'd thought that he had bitten through his own lip — but it was just the memory. Still so palpable was the pain in Thorin's cry; it hurt Bilbo physically just to think of it, even worse to have borne witness.

It felt as if an age ago, the large weight of Thorin above him as he shook Bilbo from his dreams. Just one day since falling asleep beside him, their hands clasped together, in friendship, he reminded himself. What a stupid Hobbit he had been, letting himself believe he could be anything more than flesh to Thorin Oakenshield. What he must think of me, deflowering him out in the open like a wanton, wild thing.

It certainly would not happen again, Bilbo was sure of that. Even sleeping near the king would be too much of a tease, too humiliating. Friends, what a humiliating word!

That night it rained still, and he made the conscious decision to be away from Thorin, having asked Bofur if he could break with his family. The dwarf hadn't asked for a reason, only waggled his eyebrows up and down in that comical way he had and told Bilbo he'd have to help set up the tarp if he expected to sleep beneath it.

Bilbo agreed heartily, and set about preparing their cover.

* * *

For a third night in a row, there was no reveling: the rain and the Wood forbade it. Thorin would not have partaken anyhow, spirits low after watching his Hobbit bed down with the toymaker and his kin. Mechanically, he set up his tarp alone and arranged his belongings beneath it, this time with far more room than he was used to, the extra space usually taken up by his resident burglar. Without the steady babel of rain against the back of his neck, Thorin fell asleep faster, but in no way more peacefully.

That night a blight-rose haunted his dreams, a flower which grew on the outskirts of Erebor's proper: wildlings which still remained all these years after the Dragon's decimation. There were wildflowers all around him. The white blossoms fell. They fell fathomless and forever.

There had been a terrible, haunting beauty in them; Thorin was afraid to reach out and touch, worried that he could scorch the falling blossoms as they dropped.

A figure appeared in the petals then: a slight, curved body coming from the dark. Bilbo's hair glowed in the fire light of their chambers, a single mithril bead strung through his hair, secured by the marriage braid passing behind his ear. His pale body was laid out on their bed, waiting for Thorin to return to him. His eyes, their earnest need imploring him forward, calling to him. Beautiful, wanting Bilbo, hoping for Thorin to touch him. Only him.

His Consort, his treasure of all treasures.

Bilbo opened his lips, tongue forming the one word that had so far only haunted him in sleep. It echoed in his ears, pounding in time with the steady drum of his heart.

"Ghivashel."

Above Bilbo on the bed, suddenly, hundreds of eyes materialized from the dark. Accursed eyes, beady and terrible, surrounding him. "Bones to snap," they hissed, "meat to gobble, blood to suck." Thorin could feel their stare, itching his skin and making it clammy, where he stood in the forest, the lights around him dimming to black.

"The blood of dwarves is best of all, and so we take our pick."

Thorin shook his head, trying to rid the voices from his mind, but they would not go. They tormented him and clawed at his skin with their pinchers. He could feel their eyes on him.

He spoke earnestly Bilbo's lithe shape, "We're being watched."

He did not wake suddenly from this sleep, as he so often had these nights in the Wood. He woke slowly, the touch of Bilbo's silky skin eroding little by little, taken away from him by the contemptible howl of the demons in the forest: first the mouth pressed against Thorin's lips, then the fingers that ghosted against his skin. And soon, he was alone again, awake in the night without the halfling at his side.

Thorin stared into the distance, eyes hazy and unfocused as he looked into the dark. Bilbo's absence beside him was so obvious Thorin knew not how he would sleep again this night. It was a hollow, gaping pain that ate at him; the shape of his Hobbit's emptiness beside him so unbearable he could cry.

His mother's ring burned a hole in his breast pocket, knowing it could not live ungiven to the halfling for much longer. Thorin got up quickly, pulling on his boots before he thought better of it or lost his nerve. No, he could not fail in this vein, he would have the burglar. Dwalin's words wracked through his bones. He would have the burglar, he would he would he would.

Stalking his way through the dark, Thorin pressed on, finding his way with hands outstretched. He was caught in the momentum of it — a forward thrust carrying him to Bilbo. He powered through the underbrush of the forest, trying to avoid the sleeping places of his dwarrows, not wanting to wake them.

The Hobbit had chosen a place to rest at the opposite side of camp, curled up with Bofur and his kin. Unknown heat boiled in his veins, not a possessive heat, but pangs of unbridled need. A want so terrible he'd never felt before, that he'd muffled so violently in the past for this very reason.

Finding Bilbo asleep at the edge of the Ur's tarp, Thorin dropped to his knees in the mud, unbothered by the wet dirt stains forming on the fabric of his trousers. The dwarrows beside him were undisturbed by Thorin's presence, but the halfling shuffled in his sleep, muttering nothings under his breath, too quiet for Thorin to make them out, muffled by rain on the tarp.

He edged closer to the burglar, reaching out to touch his fingers where they rested beside his hairless chin — catching them before they disappeared into a puff of smoke — no. That was the Wood, entering his mind again, clouding him, clouding Bilbo.

The Hobbit's skin was so soft, as he had hoped it would be: untarred by callouses on this journey, and somehow familiar to Thorin in a way he could not know.

Bilbo shuffled in his sleep again as Thorin took the delicate hand between both of his own, its warmth spreading through his body, down his back with scraping nails, into his hair where it hung on for dear life.

It was the echo of a touch, the echo of a dream perhaps. But even so, it rolled through Thorin's gut. Releasing one hand from the halfling, Thorin lifted it to caress the rosy cheek. Ghivashel—

Bilbo sighed and opened his eyes, still glassy from sleep but no less aware of the dwarf leaning over him. "Thorin? Thorin, what are you doing?"

But the dwarven king was speechless, his throat catching and no words would come to him. Instead he soundlessly moved his hand from the burglar's tired cheek to the pocket in the breast of his coat.

Bilbo's eyes followed his hand closely, making a confused noise when Thorin revealed the sapphire to him.

"A gift, Master Burglar, a promise," Cicadas hissed in the distance, filling the silence around them. Creatures of the forest shuffled and croaked among the trees as they stared at each other.

"A promise of what?"

The cicadas hummed. Rain fell and Bilbo watched Thorin's lip twitch.

"Forever."

Bilbo stared, his eyes moving quickly between the dwarf's face and the ring in his large hand. A heavy snore from Bombur broke the tension— Bilbo jolting from where he'd been frozen on his mat. Bombur exhaled again and tossed over where he slept, making signs of waking.

Then Bilbo surged up, past Thorin as he pulled the dwarf into the underbrush, away from the rest of their sleeping Company.

Far into the brush Bilbo stopped and turned on Thorin, never letting go, unspeakable askance in his eyes. Thorin simply wanted to grab him, kiss him, ensure that he would not disappear—

"You bed me and then attempt to court me?" Bilbo deadpanned, releasing his grip on Thorin's arm, "Thorin Oakenshield you've got things the wrong way round. I must wonder what goes on in your head."

Thorin paused, "What—"

The halfling sighed, rubbing at his eye. He looked tired. "Please do not feign ignorance, or drunkenness for we both know you were susceptible to neither. For some reason you refuse to speak of it."

Dread ran through the Dwarven King, dread and unending shame as he began to walk among the trees, "Did Dwalin tell you?"

Bilbo huffed, turning his body to follow Thorin as he paced, "Dwalin? Dwalin need not tell me of anything I partook in myself—"

"He broke my confidence, the bastard," Thorin raged, "running around, probably told the whole Company by now!"

The hobbit looked mortified, livid, "You refuse to speak with me and yet you speak with Dwalin— And what did he tell them? How you bedded the Company's resident burglar on a forest floor and left him the morning after without so much as a kind word?"

"And he creates a fiction as well! Shirumund!"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"I am calling Dwalin many things. The craven bastard!"

"Has this forest made you delusional? Do you no longer know yourself?"

Thorin frowned. He didn't meet the halfling's eyes, and so Bilbo took a step forward, "Thorin, you— We— Shire bless, don't make me say it, it's too embarrassing."

Thorin stopped pacing, turned away from Bilbo and facing the dark trees. His eyelids felt heavy.

It had felt so real.

No, no he had not— there was no explanation— "No this is another trick, a dream... the Wood making a fool of me..."

He sighed, "You're an idiot is what you are." Bilbo moved quickly, staring into Thorin's face, crowding him, holding his cheeks, touching him, "You are Thorin Oakenshield! You are the beloved king who brings his people home. And a bloody great idiot!" Bilbo was shaking him now, rocking the dwarf with each word.

"Thorin Oakenshield is no king," he keened, "He is an ostracized prole, a blacksmith made to lead those he loves most to slaughter by way of gold lust and dragon fire!"

"Have you no idea how much the Company loves you, your own people! Me? I love you Thorin, why can't you see that? Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you can not possibly love me! What am I but an exiled prince? What are you but a vision?" he tried to loosen himself from Bilbo's grip, but the Hobbit would not let him go. He wouldn't have made it far anyway, his legs weak.

"I am no apparition, Thorin! You cannot simply wish me away!" the halfling yelled, so as not to be ignored.

"What other explanation is there?" Thorin yelled back, growing disoriented in the dark. "You are a dream, ghivashel, a vision to blind me from my true path! This forest has turned me to ruin!"

Rain always started the same way in the Mirkwood, with light drizzle and a cloud of humidity thick enough to make your lungs tight and your skin stick. The air always smelled of decay, some kind of deathly petrichor not found anywhere else in Arda. And then the sound of hard droplets began to pour down, hitting the leaves and branches until you were standing under a shower of hot rain.

The first drop of water hit Bilbo's face, running down the bridge of his nose and sliding towards his mouth. It was hot, and tasted of rust, like a splash of blood on his tongue. He watched Thorin's eyes track the droplet as it came to rest on his lip.

Thorin made a low noise in his throat, like he was trying to ask for something, so pleading and perfect that Bilbo couldn't help but try to push endlessly closer — to climb into Thorin's skin. His hands were still gripped at the sides of Thorin's face, craving understanding, edging closer to the cropped facial hair. Bless, his eyes were so blue.

In that moment, Bilbo would have sworn that Thorin had leaned in too, staring so intently at Bilbo's lips. Begging him. Surging forward to catch them with his own, Bilbo clung to him, wrapping his small hands unto the layers of dwarf above him. Into the layers of clothing and up to the cascades of hair, thick and wet with rainwater. One of his hands stayed there, tangling itself in the black strands. The other traveled to Thorin's beard, tugging through the short hairs in a caress, rivulets of rain water passing over Bilbo's fingers and dripping into his clothes.

Bilbo's fingers reached the nape of Thorin's neck and and he mewled, a throaty little sound that Bilbo had only heard because he was so close, pressing himself so firmly into the great body before him. He dared to open his lips, tongue slick and pressing against Thorin's.

Thorin — gentle unto the point of reverent — wrapped an arm around Bilbo's lower back (one hand still wrapped tightly around his mother's ring), pushing and pulling at each other until they walked into a tree. Bilbo's shoulders scraped against the rough bark but he couldn't care less because he was breathing into Thorin's mouth with his hands strung around tufts of thick raven hair and Thorin's touch so was addictive; so much better than that first time under the tarp, and Bilbo could tell now that he had Thorin's full attention.

Thorin's lips moved above his again and again, repeating the same movements and Bilbo realized he was whispering, asking, praying, "Be real, please. Be real."

Bilbo pulled his lips away, "I'm here, I'm real," and kissed him again. Thorin pulled him in tight, like he never wanted to let go. Bilbo prayed he didn't. "Gods, I love you."

Whenever they broke apart for air, Bilbo's gaze met with the dwarf's and he could see Thorin's smile in the small lines beside his eyes, and when their mouths met again he could taste it on his lips. The kisses were dry and awkward at first but it was Thorin and Bilbo was kissing Thorin and he didn't think he could be happier.

When Bilbo moved his lips to Thorin's neck, the dwarf's knees buckled. He had been supporting the both of them, pressed up against the tree, and Bilbo fell unceremoniously atop him, their knees knocking and Bilbo's face still in the cradle of Thorin's neck.

Bilbo giggled. Like bells jingling, Thorin thought, and he had never heard such a wonderfully endearing sound. When they kissed again it was through Bilbo's soft smile, their teeth hitting gently, and they couldn't care less.

Soon they were just hands — fluid, familiar. It was like a dream.

Thorin rocked forward, tightening his hold on Bilbo's hip, and the hobbit reciprocated in kind. He traced his fingers down Thorin's arms, the rough armor and silky furs sliding forgotten beneath his touch as Bilbo pulled them away to reach the skin beneath.

For the second time, Bilbo saw Thorin's naked skin under the shade of the Mirkwood. Tan and muscular and raindrops were hitting his chest, soaking his hair. There was so much of him, Bilbo didn't know where to start.

So he began with the head, peppering kisses over Thorin's face and shoulders as the dwarf sat in the dirt with his hobbit above him. His legs were outstretched, inviting Bilbo to straddle the large thighs and press in, ever so gently.

They moaned into the next kiss when Bilbo reunited their mouths again, gathering up the burglar into his arms, surrounding him with heat. And suddenly the kisses were no longer sweet. They were full of want, an unbridled need, a heady desire. Thorin wanted.

Mahal, he wanted this Hobbit. Not just in a dream, not a hollow memory, but before his eyes. He needed to see him. Bare him. Love him.

Bilbo pressed in again, and Thorin could feel his want growing. His cock was hardening, had been since the halfling had pressed himself against him.

Oh, how they fit together, Mahal bless it was a gift. It was perfect. They rutted, and Bilbo was perfect. Thorin slid his mother's ring back on for safe keeping, and reached up to the halflings throat, undoing each of Bilbo's shirt buttons with a reverent need, peeling the cloth out of the trousers they'd been tucked into.

The alabaster skin beneath his dirty collar was creamy white, Thorin wanted to taste and so he did. Somehow, beneath the stench of sweat and grime, lingered a subtle taste of home. The hobbits own skin was honey and sugar, the way his smial smelled when Thorin had first met him. Like summer days beneath the sun and baking, loving those who love you. He tasted like home. He felt like home.

Kissing and nipping at a soft patch below Bilbo's ear, Thorin's hand traveled down the halfling's flank. Each time his fingers inched lower, Bilbo released a little breathy noise into the skin of Thorin's naked shoulder, a mewl that was barely audible, like he was trying to muffle himself. When Thorin reached the bulge of Bilbo's cock in his trousers, the breath caught in his throat.

Thorin touched experimentally, the slickness of Bilbo's head a gorgeous surprise. Bilbo was small as expected, as he had dreamed, and fit well in hand. Thorin moved his fingers again, through the wetness of him and Bilbo sighed, keening into Thorin's skin. Wanting more.

Beautiful. He was gorgeous, a precious jewel. Ghivashel.

Thorin moaned at his own thoughts, and rutted harshly against the unforgiving fabric of his trousers. He felt a wet patch on the front as he rushed to undo them, their laces giving him far less trouble than Bilbo's buttons.

Taking himself in hand, Thorin lifted his head again to catch Bilbo's lips, the Hobbit balanced in his lap, and his groin now moving against the knuckles of his fist - leaving lovely little streaks of white against their skin.

Bilbo licked into his mouth, and Thorin could slowly feel himself giving up power to the little creature in his arms - the wonton soul he would do anything for. Give anything to.

Thorin released his own cock for a moment, taking up Bilbo's instead and the hobbit gasped, breathing into the dwarf's mouth. His breath was hot, and their hair was beginning to stick to their skin. Bilbo rocked up into Thorin's fist and moaned, "I would have you," humming still.

An unbridled rush of heat fan down Thorin's spine, and he squeezed harder around Bilbo, tugging at the head and pressing their chests together, finding himself some friction, "And I would let you," he sighed, imagining Bilbo inside him.

He made an ungodly sound, deep from his throat and suddenly it wasn't enough. Using his large hand, he took up his cock as well, pressing he and Bilbo together, mingling in their wet heat. Precome pooled over his fingers as he pumped them, daring a glance down to watch Bilbo's skin turn a blushing red.

The Hobbit panted, his breathy sighs replaced with needy gasps as he clung to Thorin's shoulders, wrapping his hands around his neck with nails digging into the skin. They moved together, both rocking in tandem, reaching the peak.

And then Bilbo moaned, his whole body wracked with pleasure as his cock shot ropes of come, painting his alabaster skin with the pearly stuff. Thorin turned his head and could hear Bilbo mumbling something, "... love you, I love you, I love you," he chanted.

That mantra pushed Thorin over the edge as he grasped himself harder and pumped, gone, higher, coming onto his skin. Onto Bilbo's skin, "Bilbo," he whimpered. And he did not look away, but stared into his burglar's eyes, in awe.

Bilbo only hugged him tighter and he felt loved.

* * *

When he'd caught his breath, Bilbo could start to feel the mud that was seeping into the knees of his trousers. The dirt was starting to cake his toes, and beneath him, Thorin probably had it stuck in his hair. They were a terrible mess: sweaty and sticky and they needed to clean themselves, but neither made to get up any time soon. They just breathed each other in, their legs tangled together.

"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice was a whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Yes?" Their eyes met and Thorin did not turn away, but kept Bilbo's gaze as he held up his mother's ring, sliding it into the Hobbit's small palm.

"If you would have me. It is a gift, given to me by my mother many years ago, for my intended."

Bilbo's eyes went wide, disbelieving, incredibly happy, "Your intended?"

"If you would have me," he repeated, gently cupping the halflings cheek with his free hand, pressing their foreheads together and thumbing over the soft skin with a calloused finger.

In the distance, a crack of thunder wracked the forest, a storm coming in from the west. A cold breeze reached them, and Bilbo curled further into Thorin for warmth, the king draping an arm over his Hobbit's waist.

Even in this dark and terrible forrest, Bilbo thought, with his dwarf at his side, through war or weather or dragon-fire, all would be well. All would be fine.

* * *

 _End._


End file.
